If I was destined to be alone, at least I’d do that here. With him.
‘I’m so glad you came to the island, Lucas,’ Kit whispered into my hair.
I nuzzled closer and smiled into the soft folds of his scarf. I might not have actively chosen to come to Doughnut and might have had my reservations about swapping a bustling city for a tiny island, but things had more than worked out.
‘I’m glad I came here too.’ Apparently, I couldn’t help adding, ‘And I’m really glad I met you.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KIT
Isat on a stool behind the counter, my laptop open on the polished wood. Usually, I didn’t like working on my computer while Island Books was open because I thought it made me look less approachable, but there was too much to do for the next stage of the book awards to fit it all into evenings.
And I might have had the ulterior motive that any time outside of work hours spent absorbed in photo and video editing was time not spent cosied up with Lucas.
The middle of the day was a lull for the bookshop anyway. Errol made three trips across to mainland Scotland each day; one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the evening. After the first two, tourists flooded in. Some grabbed maps and headed out on rambles across the island, but others admired Hamish’s window display and browsed the shop. Midday saw them all head to the bakery. My door was closed year-round because the salty air would cause too much damage to the books if it was left open, but each time someone opened it a waft of baked goodness found its way inside.
I looked up to check I wasn’t actively ignoring customers who needed help. A couple of people about my age were giggling in the romance section. Perhaps they didn’t expect a small bookshop on a tiny island to have such a robust selection of smut. An older man browsed the sci-fi shelves and a frazzled-looking man with a toddler sat on the floor beside the picture books with a growing pile to take home.
Everyone was happy, which meant I could focus on picking the perfect twenty photos to send to the award committee. When I’d worried aloud about what pictures I should choose to best showcase the shop, Hamish had grabbed my phone and spent the entirety of his Saturday shift creating an album for me to choose from. He didn’t add every photo stored on my phone, but wading through the two hundred pictures he’d approved was time consuming. Even when he wasn’t around, I could feel his judgement that I’d pick the wrong ones.
Maybe not just Hamish’s judgement. There was a lot of my own thrown in too.
I needed to get this right. Island Books was by no means failing, but like so many others it was a bad month or two from slipping into the red. I’d used my savings to refurbish it and buy new stock at the beginning, and I had perilously little to fall back on if sales suddenly dropped.
If the shop made it onto the competition shortlist, I wouldn’t need to worry about profit margins for a while.
I’d settled on five pictures of Hamish’s window displays. The current dragon, the first Christmas display he made with a train that wove around his book selections, a vampire one that made me shudder the whole time it was up, one he’d reluctantly made about the island, and his very first. He’d included ten pictures of that in the pre-approved album. I couldn’t not include it.
I smiled at the photo. Fifteen-year-old Hamish stood beside the display, his shocking red hair bright beside his chosenadventure novels. Between the books, action figures scaled a shoulder height mountain. He’d had to employ the help of his father to bring over to the bookshop.
I scrolled to the photos I’d not yet decided on. I’d whittled it down from two hundred to fifty, but the remaining were all fierce contenders. I had to include one or two of myself, so I’d chosen a couple where I had been caught mid-laugh with regular customers. Other than that, I needed to use the last spaces to encapsulate Island Books and its place in the community.
My finger didn’t act of its own volition, but there was certainly a voice in my head telling me to stop as I scrolled to the last photo I was considering for the collection.
Hamish had taken it a few days ago. I hadn’t realised he’d nabbed my phone, let alone that he was snapping candid shots of our customers as they browsed the shelves. I’d been mid-lecture when I’d gotten to this photo and abruptly closed my mouth, my rant about photo consent evaporating.
Lucas often popped into the shop if he finished work early. He gave me a hug if I wasn’t serving customers or browsed the shelves if I was.
Hamish had caught him reading the back of the latest Olivia Dade I’d placed face out on our romance display. Lucas was wearing his work uniform of immensely practical trousers and a jumper smattered with various shades of fur. His dark eyes were downcast, his wild hair falling over his forehead. Hamish had caught the light perfectly to show off Lucas’s rich skin tone, his tan hands cradling the book.
The picture had been taken the day before The Incident That Became Several Incidents.
I’d thought I was imagining it at first. I’d just opened the letter from the Indie Bookshop awards and my brain was fizzing. I hadn’t known anyone had put the shop forward, but that enough people had done so to launch it straight onto thelonglist was amazing. I’d been pleased Lucas thought working in a bookshop was right for me, but this nomination felt like extra confirmation. I was doing something possibly award-worthy. That had to be equally as good as forcing myself through a law degree I hated every moment of but which made my mum so damn proud and would have earnt shed-loads of money.
Lucas had walked through the bookshop door and I hadn’t thought before launching myself into his arms. My internal countdown had stopped kicking in each time someone I cared about touched me, but I’d barely clung to him for two seconds before I pulled away to tell him the good news.
I didn’t realise what happened at first. I’d become so used to touching Lucas that my lips brushing across his stubbled cheek hadn’t registered as particularly significant.
Until a wave of want crashed over me.
I’d blinked, and in the next second it was gone. But another rose up before Lucas fled the shop to talk to his mum, just as brief as the first.
It was nothing like the harsh slap from others who looked at me once and decided they wanted to do all kinds of depraved things to me, but no less undeniable.
We’d cuddled on the seawall after I closed up the shop and no hint of anything other than friendly regard mixed with swirling sadness in Lucas’s scent.
I checked his scent over the next couple of days, but had to conclude that what I thought I’d smelt couldn’t have been true. Maybe it had come from someone else.
